


Strange

by rahleeyah



Category: City Homicide (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 21:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13556361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahleeyah/pseuds/rahleeyah
Summary: A gift for AndAllThatMishigas; what happened after Jen and Nick left the elevator at the end of 4.16.





	Strange

For the first time since this whole song and dance with SIS had started, they were alone. Well and truly, properly alone, with no microphones, no cameras, no Allie dogging their steps, no spooks waiting in the shadows. Strange, that an elevator could suddenly feel as intimate as a confessional booth, that in the harsh lights overhead she fancied she could read Nick's every thought upon his face, that face she loved so well, that face that gave nothing away to anyone, save for her. She watched that face as he shifted beside her, leaning towards her and away again in an instant as if he'd been drawn to her by some magnetic force and only remembered to pull himself back at the last possible moment. Watched the flicker of disappointment, resignation that flashed in his eyes, saw the sorrow in the downturn of his lips. He was trying, she knew, to put away his feelings for her, trying, as ever, to respect the boundaries she'd drawn for them, the line in the sand they would not cross, longed to cross, had come so bloody  _close_ to crossing that morning he stood beside her and spoke to her in a voice thick with need.  _You know how I feel about you,_ he'd said;  _how very Nick,_ she thought now as she stood beside him, her injured arm still clasped to her chest. He was never one to waste words, her Nick, never one to ramble on about his heart or his needs. That he had said such a thing at all represented to her a monumental shift in the delicate state of detente between them; he had pushed himself to the very edge of his comfort zone, and then flung himself from the cliff, waiting for her to join him.

Would it be so very bad, she asked herself now, if she took the plunge as well? It had very nearly happened, four years earlier; she had grown accustomed to waking up to the warmth of his arms wrapped around her, the heart-stopping eroticism of his erection pressed against her as they slept, though she always slipped beyond his reach before he woke, not wanting to draw attention to the current of desire that flowed and eddied around them, threatening to drag them under at every step. Back then they had moved as one unit, pet names dripping from their lips and promises flooding from their eyes, knowing one another well enough to communicate with no more than a look, the brush of his hand against the small of her back. They were strangers when that operation began, and soulmates by the time it ended, though the cameras had necessitated the continued chastity of their relationship. And then one day it was over, and Jen's would-be husband was torn from her side. They'd signed the paperwork and agreed to the terms, and had not even told one another their surnames or their occupations. He was just Nick to her, and then he was gone, never to be seen or heard from again.

Until that day in Matt's kitchen, when a single look had reignited the slumbering beast in her chest, set her heart to pounding in a rhythm all its own, calling out his name with every beat;  _Nick Nick Nick. Nick Buchanan,_ now, not Nick her almost-husband, Nick her fellow sort-of spook. As ever he had understood without need of words that they could be no more than partners, and until they were thrust once more into the murky waters of the intelligence service he had seemed content to keep a certain distance. Oh, most nights they were the last two at the bar, sitting alone over empty glasses, hardly speaking and yet unwilling to leave one another. And oh, they made good partners, bounced ideas off one another and fought their way through the tangled mess of any given investigation with such fluid efficiency that Wolfie paired them up more often than not, much to Rhys's amusement. Still, though, his hands had not wandered, no matter how his eyes might linger, and her own wants had remained unspoken.

Until now. He had whispered to her in the stillness of a beautiful morning and she had cradled his cheek in her palm and very nearly given in to her need of him right then and there. They had been torn apart by guns and shouting, had retreated to a safer distance, but that single, sunlit moment had nestled itself beneath her skin, had ignited the sense of possibility now thrumming through her veins. Always before she had stuck to the line, had followed Waverly's advice and staunchly refused to allow herself to fall for a coworker, even Matt, who had always been so kind to her. Her career came first, the very center of her world. But then, then there was Nick.

There had been so many nights, since he'd been so unexpectedly thrust back into her life, when she had lain awake wondering if perhaps there was a reason he had been sent back to her. It was beyond incredible, that after all this time he should have somehow materialized in that kitchen; she had not known, before, that he was a copper, had never suspected, even for a moment that their paths might cross again. And yet here he was, his head bowed as he stood beside her, steadfast and solid as he had always been. The realization she had come to, after so many months of dancing around him, after so many sleepless nights, after that beautiful morning in the house they'd shared so briefly, was that perhaps there was, finally, something in her life more important than her work.

"So, finally you get to sleep in your own bed," he murmured, ducking his head as if to hide himself from her curious gaze. Though she knew he was only trying to lighten the mood she could not help but see the sorrow that thought brought him. Every night they spent together she had dozed fitfully, too aware of him - the broadness of his shoulders, the solid expanse of his chest, the power in those arms that reached for her each time he closed his eyes - to fully relax, and each night he had slept soundly, at ease with her, with them together. Had it pained him, she asked herself now, that she could not sleep when he was near?  _If only you knew,_ she thought as she smiled up at him sadly.

"Yeah," she said.  _Yes,_ she would get to sleep in her own bed, but that prospect was suddenly infinitely less appealing than it had been only a few days before. The thought of returning to her quiet, empty little house, to her quiet, empty little bed without this man beside her was all but intolerable. How could she even think of allowing things to go back the way they were, now that she knew he cared for her, more than he probably should, that the desire she thought she had glimpsed flickering in the depths of his eyes was as real as the flash of heat that curled around her own spine each time she looked at him? Surely, she told herself, the world would not end if they reached out to one another, if she folded herself into his arms and let him hold her, the way she'd always wanted him to. All it would take, she knew, to change the state of their relationship forever would be for her to seize the moment, to be brave for a single instant. If she could simply put aside her doubts and her fears and extend her hand to him, she knew he was strong enough to carry the both of them through whatever came next.

"But it'll be strange without you there," she told him, nerves sparking through her at the leap she'd just taken. Such simple words, not particularly revelatory, but they would be enough, she knew, to tell Nick exactly what she was thinking. That she did not want to go to bed alone, ever again, that she wanted him beside her, holding her, every night. His eyes flashed as he gazed up her; his body did not move, his mouth did not hang open, his shoulders did not tense. Only those eyes, hopeful and desperate and searching; that was Nick's way. She smiled, just a little, reassuring him that he was not dreaming, that she did want him, very much.

"Let me drive you home?" he asked her carefully. He was not smiling, was not breathing shallow and full of want, was not reaching for her with trembling hands; such visceral displays of emotion were not his way. Unless, of course, that emotion was anger, or fear; she had seen the ferocity in him, when he confronted the spook after she'd been shot, when the ragged sound of her voice was the only thing that kept him from losing his head completely and doing the man serious harm. Had heard Allie and Dunny whispering, after they'd finally captured Abbott, of how they'd found Nick pounding the man's head against the ground, how they'd worried, just for a moment, that Nick was going to kill him right then. And perhaps he might have, if he had not been discovered in time; the only times Jen could recall ever seeing him lose control where the moments when she herself was in danger, and he had thrown himself between her and those who would dare cause her harm.

She could hardly drive herself home with her arm still bound in a sling - and she hardly wanted to - and so she nodded, ducking her head to block out the vision of his face, softening round the edges as he watched her. She wanted, very much, to look into his eyes and never turn away, to let him see all that she felt for him, but she knew this was not the moment. Not now, not yet, not here. Soon, though.

* * *

The drive was quiet; Jen didn't quite trust herself to speak, and likewise Nick seemed vaguely shell-shocked, as if he were struggling to come to terms with the titanic shift that had taken place between them in the elevator. There was a comfort to the silence, though; there always was, when Nick was near. That kind of peace, that kind of sure and certain understanding, Jen had never found with anyone else. All the other men she'd known - Matt most especially - seemed to be determined to fill the space between their breaths with words, with questions and boasts and their own assumed superiority. Nick was another breed altogether, strong and steady, the still point at the center of her madly spinning world. And maybe one day, maybe soon, she would admit to herself that she loved him for it.

They had been in the car no more than a few minutes when Jen realized that he wasn't driving along the familiar streets to her home. The buildings passed them by, silent as wraiths on the roadside, and Jen smiled, just a little, at his boldness. If anyone else had so cavalierly disregarded her needs and taken her to his home without so much as asking her what she wanted she would have been livid, but coming from Nick, there was a certain thoughtfulness to the gesture. He wanted to look after her, she knew, and likewise she wanted his care, his concern, the gentle touch of his strong hands. She wanted to see his house, and him in it, wanted to fall asleep beside him, and somehow he had known, without need of asking, exactly what was on her mind.

Not for the first time she cursed her wounded arm; she would have liked, very much, to rest her palm atop the taut muscle of his thigh, to curl her fingers into his warmth and reassure him of her certainty where he was concerned. She had seen his legs before, of course; by their second night together, all those many years before, he was sleeping next to her in boxers, and she had woken more than once with the coarse hair of his legs brushing against her own smooth skin. She had admired the expanse of his chest, passing by him as he returned to the bedroom fresh from the shower, had watched the curve of his thigh as he lifted the covers and crawled into bed beside her, had stood next to him at the sink, their shoulders whispering against one another as they brushed their teeth together of a morning. They had shared a thousand little intimacies over the course of their acquaintance, but there was a line they had not crossed, a line they had left behind them in the elevator at the station, and Jen was desperate to have remove the last vestiges of professional distance that separated them one from the other.

At long last they arrived at his home; Nick parked the car and turned to her then, his eyes dark and smoldering in the dim lights filtering in through the windows.

"All right?" he asked her.

"All right," she answered, a little breathlessly.

He smiled at her then, that soft, shy smile she so rarely saw from him, and only ever directed at her. The next thing she knew he was out of the car and opening her door, his arm snaking around her waist to support her as they walked across the pavement, coming to a stop just outside his little house.

How many times had she wondered what it might be like, to come to this place with this man? To lean against his side as he deftly turned the key in the lock, his hand cradling her hip, holding her so gently? A hundred times, a thousand, and none of her imaginings had come even close to the sheer bloody  _rightness_  of this moment. They belonged like this, together, always.

They stopped just inside the door, Nick slipping out of his jacket, his keys jangling as he cast them into a little bowl on the sidetable, Jen's laptop making a little  _thunk_  as she dropped it on the floor. She took a moment to take stock of her surroundings, the evidence of Nick's handiwork. He'd been fixing the place up, she knew, and her heart warmed at the thought of this man who seemed to her to be a relic of a bygone era, with his gentlemanly manners and the way he could mend just about anything with his own two hands. Perhaps, she thought as she gazed around at the clutter that surrounded them, he could mend the pair of them as well, could ghost those hands across her skin and slot all the tattered pieces of her heart back into place.

"This is nice," she told him as they stood there together, somewhat awkward now that they were alone in his home at last. It  _was_  nice, if in a state of disarray; the high windows would let in the sunshine during the day, and the living space was open and warm and inviting, and everywhere she looked she saw all the little pieces of Nick that had been missing from her own life for the last four years.

He smiled at the compliment. "It's not bad," he agreed, but then he used the arm still wrapped loosely around her to draw her into his arms. "It's better, now that you're here," he murmured, ducking his head to brush his lips against her own, ever so gently.

This kiss was unlike any she had ever known. This kiss was warm and soft, gentle and unhurried, familiar and beautiful in its own comforting way. He slung his arms around her, careful not to hold her too close, not to put too much pressure on her wounded arm. Jen's heart raced, even as she opened her lips beneath him, welcomed the brush of his tongue against her own, lifted herself up unto her toes to get that much closer to him; somehow she could not quite believe that this was really happening, that after so much time, after so much waiting, and longing, and dreaming, she was finally kissing Nick Buchanan. She could not quite believe, somehow, that his arms were cradling her close, that his nose was brushing her cheek, that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin; she had wanted him for so long, so long, and now that they were here, she was burning alive with need of him.

* * *

Nick tried his best to be mindful of her injury, not to press her back against the door and spill out every ounce of love and lust and need within him in a furious dance that might cause her more harm. Jen was the most precious thing in the world to him, and he was determined to show her, to treat her gently, reverently, to use his hands and his lips and every piece of himself to worship her until she cried his name and they fell into bliss together.

Her hand was trailing lightly over his skin; she cupped his face for a moment, held him close to her as she had done that morning in the safehouse, but she did not linger there. Slowly she dragged the tips of her fingers down, over his jawline, following the lines of his throat, the brush of her skin against his own setting him on fire with need of her. For his part Nick simply held her, one hand supporting her at the base of her spine, the other tangled gently in her hair. Her body curved in a graceful arch, and the pressure of her breasts straining against his chest left him breathless. Though they knew one another so well, he had wondered, before this moment, if perhaps she hadn't intended to fall into his bed at all, if she would want to move more slowly; she was always so careful, was Jen, so thoughtful and guarded, and it seemed like too much to hope for, that she could be here, in his arms, kissing him so fervently.

And yet she was, and as far as he was concerned, this was the best possible result he could have hoped for, and he held her that much closer, drunk on the taste of her. Sometimes he forgot just how small she was, but in that moment, when he enveloped her within the circle of his arms, when he felt her straining to reach him, pulling him down towards her, he was starkly reminded of just how delicate, just how precious she was to him. He wasn't sure exactly how much liberty he could be permitted to take, just now, when they'd only just kissed for the very first time in all the years they'd known one another and he'd yet to feel the warmth of her naked skin pressed against his own, but he decided that this moment was as good as any to press his luck.

Ever so slowly he dragged his hands down the slope of her back, and he felt her curving into him in response, every inch of her body pressed against him. With a boldness that shocked even him he allowed his hands to continue on their journey, brushing over the swell of her ass, cupping her, holding her there, angling her hips just enough so that she could feel his body's response to her. And for his boldness he was rewarded with a gentle gasp, slipping past her lips and through his own, a sharp intake of breath, but never a hesitation in the way she held him, the way she kissed him.

Encouraged by her positive response to him so far, he guided her back until they collided with the wall, a solid surface for them to ground themselves upon as their kiss continued, as he lost himself inside her. He had always known, somewhere deep in his heart, that should she should ever find her way to him, Jen would be like this. Would be passionate, would be magnificent in her abandon. And she was; the little sounds she made, when he thrust his tongue against hers, when he traced the swell of her ass and gave it a little squeeze, set him on fire with need of her. And for her part, Jen gave as good as she got, dragging her nails down his back over his shirt, her hips softly swaying beneath his own, a tantalizing rhythm that seemed to him to be almost a challenge of sorts.

It was a challenge he was more than willing to accept.

Keeping one hand firmly clenched around the softness of her ass, holding her tight against him, he used the other to gently lift her blouse, sliding his fingertips against the smooth softness of her back. And as he did he tore his mouth from hers, heard the breathy little whimper that escaped her when he dragged his lips down the column of her throat, following a path he had dreamt of tracing from the moment he first met her. It would not do, he knew, to leave a mark on her, at least not where other people could see, and so he only kissed her gently, despite the primal desire he felt to claim her, to devour her whole. His wayward hand continued its journey across her skin, feeling the goose bumps his touch inspired, feeling the way she shivered and gasped beneath him. Her hand had stilled, fisted in the back of his shirt, her body taut and tense with longing, and the more he tasted her, the more he craved her.

"I want you," he murmured, his lips brushing her collarbone as he spoke.

"Then take me, Nick," she breathed in reply. Her hand finally moved, dancing across his spine, pushing him that much more firmly against her, so that there could be no doubt that she could feel his arousal, hot and hard and throbbing, caught between their hips.

* * *

Jen had spent rather a lot of time, over the last few years, thinking about what it might be like to find herself in Nick's bed. In truth, she'd all but given up hope of ever finding out for herself what it might be like to drown beneath the weight of his regard for her. She had engaged in fanciful daydreams, remembering the shape of him his sleeping clothes, wondering what he might feel like, moving deep inside her. She had thought about his pride, about the warmth of his gaze, about the depth of his passion, and she had trembled, to think what it might be like to give herself over to him completely.

Now, though, now she knew.

She knew that when she'd kissed him, standing there in his foyer, something deep inside her had burst into flames, a damning, swirling vortex of heat and need and desperate love. Always in the past she had moved slowly, when it came to giving her body to another, to opening herself up to that kind of irrevocable intimacy. It changed things between people, and she knew it; Matt had never looked at her the same way, once he'd seen her naked, and that sly, knowing look had always terrified her in a way. Terrified her to think that someone else might presume to know the secrets of her heart, to risk that they might use that knowledge to manipulate her to their own ends. It was much easier to hide, than to lay herself out bare before another person.

And true, she and Nick hadn't been together in the traditional sense – or any sense – for any length of time at all, but he had taken up residence inside her heart long ago. She could think of nothing more personal than the way he looked at her already, with the eyes of a man who knew her soul, if not her body. What purpose would it serve, then, to delay the inevitable? Tonight her heart was singing, and she had no desire to leave him, to save their coming together for another day. He had whispered the words  _I want you,_ and she had nearly laughed aloud, thinking how badly  _she_  wanted  _him,_ thinking how lucky they were that, for once, they were on exactly the same page.

So when he pulled himself away from her, snaked one arm around her hips, and led her towards his bedroom, she followed him without a word of protest.

His home was warm and quiet, and the soft rug beneath her feet muffled the sounds of their steps. And Jen herself was warm and quiet, safe and whole and happy, tucked up beneath his arm. For so long she had dreamt of this, had waited for this, had cursed fate to think that this was beyond her reach, and she did not have it in her, to doubt him now. She would follow where he led, would allow her heart and her hands to silence the frantic machinations of her mind, and what would be, would be.

When they reached his room he turned her gently, his hands on her hips, his face looming above her, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkled with the warmth of his gaze.

"I've wanted you here, Jen, you've no idea how long," he murmured.

"I think I do," she answered, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck, using it as leverage to pull him down to her even as she stretched up on her tiptoes, desperate to meet his lips with her own. And he was with her in an instant, his tongue heavy and certain as he searched her out, his fingertips digging into her hips, clutching her fiercely.  _Let him bruise me,_ she thought,  _let him cut me, let him break me, for I am his, and always have been._

Perhaps he sensed her urgency, or perhaps not; either way, he would not be rushed. Though she ground her hips forward, her heart racing as she felt him hard and ready where their bodies met, though she sucked his bottom lip between her teeth and pulled him ever nearer to her, though she struggled with one hand to ruck up the back of his shirt and trace teasing patterns against the skin of his back, Nick did not falter, or speed up his movements to match her pace. He only held her, only kissed her, and she broke against him like a wave upon the shore, as he held steady and firm, and demanded that she linger in this moment with him, rather than rushing straight to the next and the next.

Frustration rose like bile in the back of her throat but before she could protest he was moving, his hands gently tangling in the buttons of her blouse. It took some doing, to unwind the sling from around her neck, to unfasten her buttons, to slide the shirt from her shoulders, but Nick was gentle, as he always was, his eyes watching her reverently all the while, bolstering her confidence. The moment her blouse touched the floor his lips were on her skin once more, tracing the swell of her breast where it met the lace of her bra, drawing a long, satisfied sigh from her lips.  _That's more like it,_ she thought, smiling. With one hand pressed firmly against the small of her back he directed her, her body arching beneath his touch, pressing the softness of her skin ever nearer to his searching mouth. Jen sighed and trembled and melted in his arms, running the tips of her fingers through his dark hair, reveling in the moment as he had wordlessly asked her to. Reveled in the heady knowledge that this was Nick whose lips so gently kissed her breasts, whose hand was even now searching for the zip of her trousers, eager to bare her to him fully.

And then he found it, and the fabric was sliding down her hips, and her breath caught in her throat as she stood before him in nothing but her underwear. Jen caught her bottom lip between her teeth, watching him with just a trace of uncertainty. Had Nick devoted as much time to thinking about her as she had to thinking about him? Was she anything like what he'd dreamed?

She never got the chance to ask him; with eager hands he pulled her to him once again, and once again his lips descended on hers as, sure of his purpose, he led her back to the bed behind him. His kiss answered her every question, erased her every doubt; he kissed her like he was drowning, and she was his only chance for survival, and for her part Jen was left breathless and reckless and yearning for him. When her legs collided with the bed she pulled him down with her, turning as they went so that when they collapsed together they were sprawled on their sides, her injured arm tucked in close, one of her legs moving immediately to hook around his hip and draw him to her. And though he still wore his trousers she could feel him, hard and straining for her, and she ground her tender heat down against him, shocked by the strength of her own reaction to him.

With some fumbling and a bout of giggling she managed to snake her hand between them, and she attacked his shirt buttons with a will, hampered somewhat by the fact that she only had one good hand, and by his own attempts to relieve her of her bra; after a moment, by silent agreement, they each withdrew their hands, and turned their attentions to their own clothes. They completed their tasks at almost the same moment; Nick yanked his shirt from his body and Jen threw her bra across the room, and he used his significant size advantage to roll her beneath him as his mouth descended on one of her nipples and her world went black as the sensation of his lips and his teeth and his tongue drove every thought from her mind. In response to his urging she bent her knees, cradling him there between her thighs, and mapped the topography of his back with her fingertips while every doubt and every fear that had kept them apart from one another faded away entirely.

* * *

She was driving him mad, and she knew it. She  _had_ to know it, had to know that the way she rocked her hips beneath him, the way she whimpered when he sank his teeth into the soft flesh of her breast, the way she dragged her nails down his back, all of it combined into a heady cocktail of love and lust and need, and Nick found his self-control slipping, his desire to make this last slowly losing out to his desire to bury himself inside her.

While his mouth was busy learning the shape of her breasts, learning where to kiss her and how to draw that low keening sound from deep in the back of her throat, her hand had once more slipped between them, this time intent on his belt buckle. Nick lifted his hips, though he found himself unwilling to part from her completely, and so they struggled together, she determined to divest him of his trousers and he determined to kiss and lick and suck every inch of her he could reach. Eventually though he was forced to roll away from her, in order to dispense with his trousers; Jen was all but useless, with her right arm cradled protectively against her chest. Of course she'd never admit it, would never want to appear weak, but if they were going to get his trousers off tonight, he knew he'd have to be the one to do it. Jen pounced on him the moment he was on his back, and with a charming, brilliant little smile she settled herself astride his hips; Nick sat up and pulled her towards him, kissing her tenderly, softly, wanting her to know how much he loved her, how grateful he was to her, how happy she made him.

Now she was straddling his lap, with only the barrier of their underwear to separate them, and the moment was all the sweeter for it, for the knowledge of how far they had come, and how far they still had left to go. He took a deep breath and turned his attention briefly to her shoulder, dropping gentle kisses on the skin around her bandage, blessing her wound, trying to tell her without words how much it had grieved him, to come so close to losing her, how determined he was to never let her go. Jen seemed to understand; she wound her fingers through his hair, and guided his mouth back to her own, and in the brush of her lips and the slide of her tongue he tasted her reassurances. Kisses would not sate him indefinitely, though, and he was eager to feel her, all of her, to know her as he never had before, to hear the sound of her gasping his name in ragged, wretched ecstasy, and with this in mind he once more turned them, once more rolled her beneath him, taking a moment to stare down at her in awestruck wonder.

To his mind she was staggeringly beautiful, the most beautiful woman he had ever known, not due just to the fineness of her features but owing to their uniqueness, to the way the little lines around her mouth, the sharp hollows of her cheekbones, the burning brilliance of her eyes all coalesced into a single image, a singular glory. She was his Jen, and there was nothing more lovely, more desirable, more shattering in all his world than she.

With an unsteady intake of breath he held her, ran the pads of his fingers from her collarbones over the rise of her breasts, across her soft belly, feeling her trembling beneath him, until he reached the final barrier of black lace that separated her from him. She breathed his name and canted her hips up towards him, giving him all the permission he needed to bare her to him fully for the first time. And when it was done he stopped, stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped thinking, very nearly ceased to exist altogether because this was  _Jen,_ naked and writhing in his bed, and her folds were warm and wet, provocative and begging him to taste her. He could not stop himself from reaching for her, tracing the shape of her, committing every piece of her to memory.

" _Christ_ , Jen," he swore, unable to resist the temptation, unable to deny the siren song of her body, calling him ever onward. He was quite overcome with need of her, and before she could speak a word he shuffled down the bed and allowed his tongue to follow the path his fingertips had traced against her heat.

And as he did she came to life beneath him, her fingers fisting in his sheets, her moans only growing in intensity as he learned what she liked, what she didn't, what she needed to ascend to the height of pleasure, to shatter around him. The unhindered view of her folds allowed him now to find the small nub of her clit rather quickly, and he wrapped his lips around it even as he thrust two thick fingers inside her, curling, searching, demanding all she had to give, and she gave it without hesitation, bucking up hard against his face, swearing and writhing beneath him until at last it became too much and she came with a sharp cry, the force of her orgasm slamming her back against his pillows, as her warm, wet inner muscles clenched and unclenched around his fingers and his mouth followed the shape of her, drinking her in, leading her though the aftershocks that left her whimpering and begging for him.

"Nick, please," she moaned, and who was he to deny her?

There would be other nights, nights when this thing between them was less raw, less all-consuming in its intensity, when he could take her anyway he chose. Tonight he did not have it in him to wait to rearrange them, to ask her for more, and so he didn't, choosing instead to slide up her body until his lips collided with hers. As he kissed her she reached between him and struggled to slip his trunks down over his hips, until he took it upon himself to tear them off and toss them away. There, nestled in the warm, wet valley between her thighs, he found peace.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he breached her, mindful of his own not inconsiderable size, mindful of the fact that it had likely been as long for her as it had been for him, and the way she gasped when the head of his erection slipped into her welcoming warmth told him he was right to take it slowly. For his sake, as well; it was unbelievable, to think that they had made it this far, that his lips had left the bruise that marked the curve of her breast just above her heart, that somehow he found himself sharing his bed, not with Trish Clayborne, but with Jennifer Mapplethorpe. It was all he'd wanted for years now, and the sheer bliss of having it, of having  _her_ , was almost more than he could bear.

There was no time left for doubts when Jen was gasping his name, when she cradled his hips in the valley of her thighs and urged him ever onward. He responded to her urging with enthusiasm, gradually thrusting deeper and deeper within her, until he felt the sharp sting of her nails digging into his back, until he felt her clench around him, until all sense of time and reason left him and all he knew was her, the scent of her, the feel of her, the sound of her as she came with him buried to the hilt inside her. With a long, satisfied groan what remained of his self-control left him and he emptied himself inside her, and she held him all the while, trembling and whimpering and wrapped around him.

* * *

Jen could not say how long it took, for her breathing to return to some semblance of normal, but when it did she found herself lying along her left side, her right arm still close to her chest, Nick's legs tangled with hers and his arm around her waist, his face so close to her own she could hardly make out his features. She sighed, blissful and happy and strangely complete, and nestled that much closer to him, pressing her nose against his neck while his hand danced up and down her spine.

"This can work, can't it, Nick?" she asked him softly.

He hummed above her, sated and replete. "I checked," he answered. "There's no official rule against it. It's just that the brass don't like it. But no one needs to know. What you and I do, what we are to each other, is no one's else's business."

_How very Nick,_ she thought, smiling against his skin. He never would have risked her career, she knew, if their having a relationship was in violation of the regulations. But of course he had checked, had covered all his bases, just in case. He was such a private person, was Nick, always played his cards so close to his chest; of course he'd say it was no one else's business. And, Jen mused as she lay there beside him, he was absolutely right. There were not words for this, to explain the connection, the bond that had formed between them the moment they first met, and there was no need to even try. Nick and Jen understood, and they were the only ones who mattered.

Beside her Nick caught the duvet with his foot and lifted it up to cover them, and Jen sighed, warm and happy and safe right where she belonged, curled up next to him. That night she slept a deep and peaceful sleep, and Nick held her all the while.


End file.
